


Wash Away Your Sins (Let You Breathe Again)

by thewaythatwerust



Series: Stucky Forever! (aka, Stucky in Wakanda) [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bathing/Washing, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug (and a Handjob), Canon Divergence - Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Civil war missing scene, Hair Washing, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Steve Rogers lends a hand, Touch-Starved Bucky Barnes, recovering Bucky Barnes, super soldiers being soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22592509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaythatwerust/pseuds/thewaythatwerust
Summary: When Bucky finally finds his voice, it’s halting, like each word is an unknown quantity, his mind turning them over experimentally before they're pushed from his throat. "It's… been a long time… since... anyone has... touched me... in that way."His lips tip up in the sense memory of masquerade, but the 'everything is okay' façade he always wears whenever Steve's concerned eyes are cast his way slips - he's stretched too thin for the illusion to hold. Pain bleeds from his memories into his voice. "HYDRA wasn't exactly big on positive reinforcement."
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Stucky Forever! (aka, Stucky in Wakanda) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1621651
Comments: 18
Kudos: 190





	Wash Away Your Sins (Let You Breathe Again)

**Author's Note:**

> i. Beta'd by FestiveFerret <3 <3 <3 (Though I tinkered *a lot* with it after, so all remaining errors are miiiine, my precioussses)
> 
> ii. Bucky went from being bloody and dirty to shiny and clean in Civil War, and this, obviously, is how it happened.

The memories of their footsteps have long since faded and filled with fresh snow, but had they remained, Steve doesn't think it would make their trek any easier. He adjusts Bucky against him, his fingers clutching at his best friend's side, supporting his weight. Steve's eyes dart to the left, seeking Bucky's face, finding only a sheet of dark hair, matted crimson, instead.

He could lift Bucky and carry him to the Quinjet easily, but after losing his arm, Steve doubts taking his agency is the best course of action right now. So they move slowly, Steve setting his pace by Bucky's limping progress, heavy movements and blunt fingers bruising into his shoulder, silent confessions of the pain screaming through Bucky's broken body.

Steve's breath fogs the frigid air in front of him. He blinks away the frozen flakes clinging to his eyelashes, watching their kin scatter, clinging to Bucky's hair and dying against his skin. Bucky makes no move to brush them away, eyes staring ahead blankly, like the cold swirling around him is no match for that within.

The shiver that runs through Steve has nothing to do with the snow.

They take another half-step forward.

✯

The straps securing Bucky to the jet seat are straining, struggling to wrap around his body, and Steve's mind flares at the contradiction. Bucky looks so much smaller than Steve can ever remember, curling inward, like a hollowed-out husk crumbling in on itself, a breath away from collapsing into nothingness.

The ringing silence that blankets them is thick and suffocating. Steve clenches his jaw, grinding the questions he already knows the answers to between his teeth until the bitter shards turn to ash in his mouth.

His grip tightens on the controls, closing the distance between them and their last best hope of salvation. Steve tries to sharpen his focus as they cut through the sky, but as they soar through the clouds, he can't shake the sinking emptiness clawing at his chest.

✯

The light, clean lines of the room, typical of Wakanda, are a stark contrast to the grim, dirty figure huddled on the plush carpet.

Bucky had been standing when Steve had left him for his own room, where he had discarded his uniform and everything that came with it, climbed into the shower, and let the too-hot water scorch his skin until it matched the fiery rage burning in his belly. He'd dressed in the garments left on his bed --the brightly colored cloth wrapping around his body at odds with the storm raging inside-- and returned, expecting to find Bucky's time had been similarly spent.

His expectations had come up wanting.

Steve crouches next to Bucky and places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing the worn leather vest reassuringly. The touch makes Bucky’s chin jerk up, eyes slowly blinking into focus, the haunted look dulling the light blue hues.

The first word Bucky speaks since Siberia is Steve's name, a broken question lingering on his lips even as his eyes slide out of focus once more.

Steve wants to cup Bucky's jaw and tell him that everything's going to be okay, but the heavy weight of uncertainty stills his hand. He abandons the empty words caught in his throat, opting for decisive action instead.   
  
"Let's get you cleaned up, Buck."

There’s no resistance to Steve’s gentle but commanding motions - Bucky allowing himself to be pulled to his feet, standing unmoving where he's righted. Steve unzips the leather vest, maneuvering it carefully around the mangled mass of silver metal before sliding it down Bucky's other arm. _Only arm_ , Steve corrects himself, darkly. 

The black mock turtleneck beneath wraps snuggly around Bucky's body, the lack of fastenings presenting a higher degree of difficulty. Steve works in reverse, pulling Bucky's arm through the long sleeve before easing the fabric over his head and stretching the cut off sleeve around the metal remnants, mindful to avoid catching on the sharp shards and exposed circuitry.

Steve's eyes sweep over Bucky's exposed chest, his hands tightening into fists by his sides. The smooth skin is littered with dark, angry marks, deep purples and reds swallowing up the pale skin beneath it in more places than not. Steve's fingers reach toward the mottled ribs but falter a breath away, curling back in on themselves and retreating to his side. He blows out a slow breath, trying to reel in his anger - losing control is not going to help Bucky regain his.

Steve drops to the floor, one knee pressing into the carpet, one angled up to Bucky as he works on loosening boot lacings. When his verbal request is met with no response, he places a hand around Bucky's calf and lifts it himself, using his free hand to tug the boot free before lowering Bucky's leg back to the floor, watching the thick pile of carpet crush underfoot. Placing the boot aside, Steve echoes his motions for its twin before rising.

Steve grasps Bucky's wrist tightly, giving him a tether, seeking to draw him out of himself. "Buck..."

Light blue eyes remain unfocused.

Fear clutches at Steve's chest. After so much time with Bucky gone, and more time spent searching to find him, Steve cannot bear the thought of losing him, especially not like this. To have him in his hands but out of reach, trapped inside himself. _Again._

Unable to fight the impulse any longer, Steve reaches up and cups Bucky's jaw, running a calloused thumb over his cheek.

Bucky's eyes snap into focus, recoiling from the touch at the same time his hand twists out of Steve's grip. Bucky locks his fingers around Steve's wrist, bending it up and around, a quick tug, twist, and push, and Steve is on his knees again, facing away from Bucky, arm wrenched tightly behind his back.

"-- Buck!" Steve's voice breaks, a startled gasp, but he makes no move to resist. Bucky's erratic pulse feeds into him through the thumb digging painfully into his skin, but he remains still, waiting.

"...Steve?"

The hold on his hand loosens, then disappears altogether, and Steve lets his arm drop and pushes to his feet, spinning back toward Bucky as he straightens.

"I'm sorry. I don't know..."

"It's my fault, I startled you."

The clouded look in Bucky's eyes is gone, replaced by hyper-awareness. Steve forces himself to remain motionless as wide eyes dart over him before flicking around the room.

"Are you alright?" Steve’s body aches, fighting against itself, wanting to embrace Bucky, to chase the fear away, but he keeps a cushion of distance between them, not wanting to cause more distress than he already has.

Bucky nods slowly, even as his fingers come up to ghost over the skin where Steve's hand had been only moments before. "Yeah, I... Yeah." Bucky’s head dips, eyes catching on his exposed chest before dropping lower to his bare feet, wriggling his toes in the thick carpet. His gaze slides back up to Steve's, the arch of his eyebrow a silent question.

Steve's shoulder raises in an easy shrug. "Kinda hard to get clean in dirty clothes."

Bucky’s brows furrow as his gaze travels down Steve's body, noticing the colorful clothing for the first time. "You look ridiculous."

The tension in the air dissipates like fog burning away in sunlight, and Steve takes it as permission to move without consequence. His chuckle follows him as he fetches the folded cloth from Bucky’s bed. He returns, and holds the colorful stack close to, but not touching, Bucky's chest. He smiles. "Just like you're about to, pal."

Bucky's lips twitch as he takes the clothes and tucks them under his arm. He limps toward the bathroom and Steve hovers after him, searching for the delicate balance between wanting to help and not wanting to overwhelm.

At the doorway, Steve pauses. "Do you need some help?"

Bucky hesitates before shaking his head.  
  
Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Steve nods his understanding, reluctantly. "I'll be right here if you change your mind." He tries to push his lips up in a reassuring smile but feels the corners tug down against his best efforts.

Bucky's lips weld together tightly, but his eyes remain bright and alert. Copying Steve's nod, he touches the control panel on the wall, and a cloudy glass door slides closed between them.

Steve can see the obscured silhouette of Bucky standing in place for a long moment before he moves, the halting silhouette shrinking as the distance between them increases. Steve doesn't move. He plants his feet in the carpet, anchoring himself to the soft fibers with curling toes, wraps his arms across his chest, and waits.

✯

There's no measurement of time beyond the steady thump in his chest, and Steve loses count of the number of beats that pass before he hears Bucky's voice, muffled by the barrier between them, calling his name quietly.

Steve jabs at the access panel on his side of the door and frowns his impatience at the slow glide of the milky glass. He angles his body and slides through the expanding gap before it's fully open. In three quick strides, he's standing before the door of the opaque shower cubicle, battling his desire to put it open without further prompting.  
  
"Steve?" Bucky's voice sounds from beside him, and Steve startles and spins toward it, almost losing his footing on the shiny tiles.

Sitting up in a large freestanding tub, positioned off-center in the room, Bucky has his knees pulled up against his chest, his arm wrapped around them. Water is feeding up through a vent in the bottom of the tub, streams of bubbles showing white in the otherwise clear liquid. 

Steve stalls, logic filtering gradually through emotion. Of course Bucky can't have a shower in his condition. His damaged shoulder is resting on the edge of the tub, thin wires dangling, like exposed nerves, well out of the water's reach.  
  
"You okay?"

The jerky, uncertain motion of Bucky's head is echoed in his voice. "Yeah, I just... I need a, uh, hand. If you don't mind? I don't think I can manage my hair."

Steve’s shoulders loosen slightly as he nods. He gathers necessary supplies before moving to settle on his knees, at the end of the tub behind Bucky. Scooping water in the glass he'd scavenged from the bedroom, Steve holds it in position over the back of Bucky's head. Two fingers of his free hand press gently under Bucky's chin, seeking to tip his head back and afford a better rinsing angle, but his fingers fall away into empty air as Bucky jolts forward.

"Bucky?"

Twisting to look back at Steve, Bucky’s eyes are wild again. "I'm sorry."

"Did I hurt you?" Steve's voice is strained to his own ears. His hand shrinks back.

Bucky shakes his head but silence rings loudly for a long moment. Fear steals over Steve's skin, flashing hot before prickling cold, dreading those light eyes slipping away from him again.  
  
When Bucky finally finds his voice, it’s halting, like each word is an unknown quantity, his mind turning them over experimentally before they're pushed from his throat. "It's… been a long time… since... anyone has... touched me... in that way."

"Which way?"

The answer gets caught in Bucky's throat, a strangled, choking noise before he swallows roughly. "Carefully. With kindness. Contact usually comes with…"

 _Pain._ Steve's mind fills in the blank and flares white hot with rage.

Bucky's lips tip up in the sense memory of masquerade, but the _everything is okay_ façade he always wears whenever Steve's concerned eyes are cast his way slips - he's stretched too thin for the illusion to hold. Pain bleeds from his memories into his voice. "HYDRA wasn't exactly big on positive reinforcement."

Steve's blood seeps from his skin through the small crescent-shaped cuts now littering his palms, and he wipes them on his clothes, the red blending in to the vibrant colors of the fabric: hiding in plain sight. "I can _not_ touch you, Buck, if it would help? I don't wanna…" Steve's words fall away, swallowed up by uncertainty. _To hurt you? To make you disappear again?_

"No. It's okay. It's… nice, I think. I don't want HY --- I don’t want _that_ to be my body’s lasting memory of human contact."  
  
Steve's throat constricts painfully, but he pushes the words out as light as he's able. "Okay, but if you change your mind, just tell me and I'll stop. Okay?"

Bucky slides back toward Steve until he bumps up against the cool ceramic, ropes of tension still coiling through his broken body.

Steve reaches out slowly, repeating his earlier touch. Bucky’s whole body goes rigid at the contact, but he doesn't wrench away. As Steve's fingers press up, Bucky's head tips back tensely, and the tight muscles unwind again when gentle fingers lift off stubbled skin.

The warm water from the cup runs through dark locks, saturating them as Steve repeats the motions again and again, and Bucky's hair blends together, forming a slick sheet that clings to his neck.

As Steve rakes gentle hands through the drenched mane, untangling as he goes, Bucky's body constricts once more, and Steve can feel the fight or flight response warring within the tortured mind beneath his fingers. He searches for a life-line, a thread of bright familiarity to cast into the darkness, something for Bucky to cling to.  
  
"Do you remember when you washed _my_ hair?" For a moment there's no answer, and Steve is worried Bucky _doesn't_ remember.

But after a long breath pulled in through his nose, Bucky’s words come slow and steady. "That time you picked a fight with the jerk that was three times your size? And you sprained both wrists, an ankle and split your lip?"

Steve's hands continue their rhythmic water-pouring, hair-carding dance. Relief surges through him and a fond smile warms his voice. "Yeah."

The strain in Bucky's body lessens a notch and his words come more easily. "There was nothing for it, Steve. You were covered in dirt and blood. I had to clean you up before your ma got home or she would have taken one look at _you_ and yelled at _me_ , like all the trouble you got yourself into was somehow my fault." Bucky's laugh is small but genuine.

Steve's laugh mixes with Bucky's, and for a moment, time and pain wash away and they are back in Brooklyn. Back before saving the world was their responsibility. Back when saving each other was enough.

The moment passes, reality settling over their skin once more, but Bucky's chest is rising and falling steadily, agitation draining away slowly with each turn of Steve's hand.

Steve takes hold of a small bottle of shampoo and pours some of the contents onto his palm, a sweet berry scent sweetening the air around them. He rubs his hands together, spreading the slippery liquid between them. He works through Bucky's hair, scrunching and lifting, watching soapy bubbles spring from between his fingers and cling to the drenched strands.

He moves carefully over the matted mess of Bucky's hairline. White bubbles turn pink, and Bucky twitches under Steve's fingers. Rubbing tenderly, he labors until the crust of crimson fused to the dark locks dissolves.

Bucky's head tips back, his shoulders dropping low, muscles uncoiling - his body accepting Steve touch… remembering it.

Massaging Bucky's scalp, Steve’s firm fingers draw gentle circles and are rewarded with soft sighs. He lathers the strands, twisting and curling them up on themselves, returning to draw more quiet sounds from Bucky by kneading his scalp. He works his hands continuously, long after every hair is coated - the task of cleaning giving way to a display of affection.  
  
The stream of bubbles feeding into the tub stops, the water no longer rising, stalling half-way up Bucky's chest. Steve is tempted to continue his ministrations, but wants to finish before the water turns cold - Bucky’s had more than enough cold to last a lifetime.

Suds abandon his hand, gliding away on the still warm water by Bucky's side as he refills the cup. He lifts his free hand, pressing the edge of his palm against Bucky's forehead: a dam to keep liquid off his face. The stream of water picks up the froth and carries it down to the pool below. Each cup makes the strands dance against Bucky's skin as they relinquish their foamy cloaks.

When no traces remain, Steve slicks his hands with conditioner and skates his fingers through the now sleek, shiny hair. Bucky's eyes drift closed. Steve repeats his earlier actions, drawing more blissful sounds, and by the time Bucky's hair has been lathered and rinsed clean once more, his chest is rising and falling with long, steady breaths, his body lax.

Steve touches Bucky's shoulder, a reassuring weight, lacking force and intention, but light eyes fly open and he surges forward again, caught off guard.

"Hey, easy. It's okay, Buck. It's just me."

Bucky’s chest moves erratically, but recognition calms the panic in his eyes.

"Gonna wash your back now, okay?"

Bucky nods and leans forward, folding his chest to his knees.

Steve takes the washcloth and submerges it, letting it soak and swell in the water. He lifts it, ringing it out before pressing it to the base of Bucky's neck. He trails it down the ridge of spine, dipping down below the water, following the line to where peak meets valley, and Bucky tips his head forward onto his knees, sighing softly.

Pulling the cloth up, Steve traces it gently over the discolored, swollen flesh of Bucky's side, his teeth catching between his lip at the pointed gasp. Retracing his path back to the water, he soaks the cloth again, sliding up the other flank, over a sharp shoulder blade, coming to press against Bucky's neck. Steve squeezes the cloth and curves it over strong muscles, chasing the rush of water as it rolls down bruised skin, back to the waterline.

Steve knee-walks to the side of the tub, and Bucky’s eyes lift to meet Steve's gaze. It has been a long time since Steve has seen Bucky's face this relaxed - the hard lines of worry, pain, and uncertainty smoothed away by unconditional love. Without breaking eye contact, Steve raises the washcloth and presses it to the side of Bucky's throat.

"I can do that." Bucky's head lifts, followed by his hand as it wraps around Steve's, still holding the cloth aloft.

Steve’s fist remains closed. "It's okay, just lie back. I got it."

Bucky hesitates, hand still enclosing Steve's.

"Then we'll be even, Buck."

Bucky's hand releases Steve's and moves to rest on the edge of the tub. A rueful smile tugs at his lips as he reclines against the white ceramic, legs stretching out, dipping below the water. "We must have kept very different scorecards."

Grinning as he presses the cloth back to Bucky's neck, Steve wipes over the tender flesh, feeling Bucky's throat bob under his fingers. He wipes gingerly over the cuts on Bucky's face, frowning at the way pain bites at Bucky’s features, even though no sound passes his lips. Steve pinches the fabric between his fingers and rewets it, using it to dab in small, tender motions, lifting bright stains off broken skin.

He works his way over Bucky's shoulder, across the solid expanse of his chest, and down the corded muscles of his arm, scrubbing at the exposed skin, trying to wash away the ghosts of Bucky's past that still cling to him as much as the dirt, sweat, and blood so prominently on display. Steve's hand is tracing the cloth down the small rises and hollows of Bucky's stomach when he pauses, his attention drawn further down.

The stilled touch rouses Bucky, his head lifting from the tub, focus finding Steve before following his line of sight. Steve jerks his gaze away, dragging up to Bucky's face, watching him blink slowly, like waking from a dream, his eyebrows creasing together. He steals a sharp breath as he jerks forward, his hand slices below the waterline, brushing past Steve's as he traps his arousal between it and his belly, attempting to conceal himself, quickly edging back to the wild-eyed look from earlier.  
  
Abandoning the cloth, Steve presses his hand to Bucky's chest, over his heart, feeling the rapid thumping under his palm. "Buck…"

"I'm s-sorry. I don't -- uh --" Bucky's tongue darts out, swiping over cracked flesh, wincing absently. "It's -- uh, I forgot…" His face scrunches tight — confusion, embarrassment, and panic burning stories across his skin.

Staring at Bucky, Steve’s chest aches. So much time forfeited to pain. Languishing in cold and darkness without human touch. Alone. Without affection or pleasure. ...of any kind. Pulling in a controlled breath, Steve slides his hand down Bucky's chest, over his belly, coming to curl around his cupped hand.

Bucky's eyes push wider, eyebrows lifting high. "N-no.. I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

Steve brushes his thumb against the back of Bucky's hand. "Don't be embarrassed. It's good. Your body is remembering what pleasure is." He swallows roughly, gathering his nerve. "I could help you... I'd _like_ to help you. If you want me to."

A rough, red lip crushes between bright, white teeth as Bucky's eyes narrow, searching Steve's.

Steve’s voice is strong and sure. "Gotta let me finish my job, Buck. Can't wash what I can't touch."

" _Steve_ ," Bucky’s cheeks burn brighter as he shakes his head, "you don’t have to--"

Releasing Bucky's hand, Steve reclaims the washcloth. "I _want_ to. Just lie back and relax. Let me help you remember."

Bucky hesitates, but his hand lifts, hovering over himself for a moment before sliding up the white curve of ceramic.

Steve takes the cloth and slides it down Bucky's taut belly, watching it dip below the waterline, pausing once it reaches its destination. He slides it up the underside of Bucky's cock, the roughened texture pulling his breath from him in a sharp hiss. Steve swipes across the swollen head and back down, tracing the thick vein jutting out beneath smooth skin. "Is this okay?"

Bucky gnaws on his lip as he nods.  
  
"Lay back, Buck. It’s okay."

Bucky's muscles don't relax as he reclines, just notch him back in halting steps until he’s pressing against the tub, his eyes never leaving Steve's hand as it moves the cloth lazily, ghosting over rigid flesh. Bucky's head drops back with a throaty moan.

Moving from his current position --keeling on the floor, side pressed against the tub, facing Bucky-- Steve turns to face his hand, lifting to his knees. Continuing to stroke Bucky slowly, Steve raises his other hand to run through the wet locks of Bucky's hair. "Yeah, that's it. Just relax."

Steve sweeps the cloth up and down Bucky's cock, curving around him, rubbing over the head, sliding down to brush over his balls. The constant shifting sensation has Bucky gripping the edge of the tub, fingertips blooming white, his breath pushing past his lips in small breathy sighs. Dark eyes, framed with heavy lids, shadow Steve's every move.

"Yeah, just like that. You're so good. Doin' so good."

Bucky’s low, desperate moan prickles over Steve’s skin.

Steve can feel the water starting to cool even as the warmth from Bucky bleeds through the cloth. Bucky's hips jerk up in the water as Steve's grip tightens, trapped fabric the only barrier between heated skin.The facade of cleaning washing away.

The fabric flares out from the tunnel of his fingers, billowing in the water as Steve’s pace increases, the motions sending waves rippling into Bucky’s chest. The sounds of rhythmic sloshing filling the room almost as obscene as the constant stream of whimpering moans now falling from Bucky's parted lips.

"Steve, I need you."

Steve squeezes tightly, his hand now moving with purpose. "I'm right here, Buck."

Bucky shakes his head frantically. "Need to feel _you_.” He lowers his hand into the water, grips the washcloth, and tugs urgently. “ _Please._ " 

Steve’s fingers loosen enough for the fabric to slip free, and his teeth slice sharply into his lip at the feel of Bucky bare against his palm. Bucky's fingers lock around his, pressing him down, urging him tighter. Steve bites back a moan, bracketed between warm layers of _Bucky_.

"I feel -- uh, ahh, _Steve_. Please. I need to…"

Bucky's hips drive to meet Steve's grip in frenzied thrusts, his hand riding Steve's as it races over his cock. Steve's eyes drag from their hands, up the wet skin of Bucky's chest, flushed red and heaving, up the enticing curve of his neck, to where his head is thrown back against the tub, eyes squeezed shut.

"That's it, just like that. Let yourself feel good. I got you." Steve's voice is low and breathless, control starting to slip away from him as Bucky rocks up, slick and hard in his hand. Steve clenches his jaw, his own cock throbbing for attention, but he ignores the urge to grind against the hard wall of the tub, his focus solely on giving Bucky pleasure.

Steve's name brands Bucky's lips, spilling from them, over and over, like it's the only word his mouth can form, the only word he remembers.

"Yeah, you’re so good, _so good_ for me. You can do it, Buck, c'mon, come for me."

Bucky jolts at Steve's words and he gasps as he comes, tension straining his muscles, drawing them taut, his whole body shaking as his cock pulses in Steve's hand. Bucky's broken cries echo off the tiles as his eyes snap to their joined hands, locked together, moving in unison, pumping milky strands from his throbbing cock that twist and curl in a hazy cloud beneath the water.

Steve continues to work Bucky through his pleasure until the pulsing stops and he's tugging Steve's hand away, falling back against the tub, panting harshly.

Flattening his hand low over Bucky's belly and rubbing tenderly as laboring breaths steady, Steve waits until Bucky's head lifts and soft eyes fix on his. He runs his hands through Bucky's hair, ruffling the strands at the crown of his head.  
"Good?"

Bucky, _the old Bucky_ , carefree and happy, creeps through the lines around his eyes and the small divots pressing into his cheeks, and Steve’s breath catches in his throat. 

"What do you think, punk?"

Steve's laugh floats from his lips, buoyed by happiness, as he splashes water up onto Bucky’s chest before pushes to his feet, ignoring the bite of pain in his back and the ache in his knees. He grabs an oversized towel from the rack, shakes the folds free and holds it open, waiting. Bucky rises from the tub on still-shaky legs, rivulets of water cascading down his smooth skin as he steps, cautiously, onto the tiles.

Bucky disappears into a bright white flurry of fabric as Steve engulfs him in the towel, mindful of his damaged shoulder. He mops over damp skin, feeling the towel soak the cool water from Bucky's flushed body. He smiles at Bucky's spluttering protests, scrubbing the cloth over Bucky's arm, circling around every finger, before wiping over his chest and down his abdomen. Steve smirks at the jolting hips as he slides the towel over Bucky's softening cock. He bends down to shimmy the absorbent cloth down Bucky's legs, over his feet, dipping between each toe.

Bucky huffs good-naturedly. "You're just trying to rack up more I.O.U's at this point, aren't you?"

Grinning as he straightens, Steve pulls the towel away and uses it to flick playfully across Bucky's thighs. "I think I'm still working off yours. Now stop complaining and spin. I haven't done your back."

Bucky follows the command, standing quietly as Steve works the towel across his back and down over the swell of his ass. Once his body is dry, Steve presses the fluffy fabric to Bucky's hair as his head tips back, humming quietly. Steve's chest swells with the realization that rather than jerking away from his touch, Bucky is now leaning into it. Steve’s hands linger, scrunching the damp locks for longer than necessary, enjoying the low sounds of pleasure rumbling through Bucky's chest.

Finally forced to abandon the damp towel, Steve retrieves the brightly coloured clothing and sets about helping Bucky into it. He's pressing against Bucky's back, pulling his arm through the fabric when Bucky sags against him. Wrapping one steadying arm around him, Steve takes his weight as he fixes the cloth.

"Still with me?"

"Sorry. Kinda exhausted,” Bucky sighs, his head lolling back against Steve.

Reaching down to press a hand under Bucky’s thighs and planting one on his back, Steve lifts him, the small voice in his head screaming about _taking without asking_ being silenced by the low, contented noise that reverberates through Bucky's throat. Steve carries him to the bed and sets him onto the mattress on his right side. He tugs the covers down from under Bucky's body, and pulls them back up, over it.

Bucky's eyes open and fix on his as strong fingers wrap around his wrist. "Steve?"

"Yeah?"

Bucky's eyes dip before rising back up to Steve's, brimming with hesitation. "You'll stay, right? You'll be here when I wake up?"

Steve runs his hand over Bucky's cheek, thumb brushing over warm skin, watching the doubt fade away. "Of course. Can’t get rid of me that easily."

Bucky's fingers release him, and Steve pads to the illuminated panel on the wall, pressing the screen, making the lights in the room dim. He makes his way back to the bed, pulls the covers down and slides in, his chest pressing tight against Bucky's back. His arm glides over Bucky's waist.

"You'll come with me in the morning?"

The words are so low Steve has to strain to hear them in the dark. His chest aches. _Tomorrow morning. Cryo._ "I'll be there, Buck. And I'll be there when you wake up, too."

Bucky’s still-damp hair scrubs over the crisp pillowcase as he shakes his head. "That's okay. It'd just be nice to have you there, to have you be the last thing I see before I go under again. But you don't have to come back. After--" Bucky clears his throat. "Before Bucharest, I did manage on my own, you know." 

Bucky’s voice is light, trying for teasing, but Steve knows better. He curves himself closer against Bucky, tightening his hold. "I know." He pauses, the echo of Bucky's voice rises through the years, thrumming inside his mind, and he lets it spill from his lips, as true now as it had been then. " _The thing is, you don't have to_. Not anymore."

Steve hears awareness spark in the hitch of Bucky's breath, and his hand moves to cover Steve's where it rests over his belly. He squeezes gently. "Thank you. For _everything._ "

Tipping his forehead down, Steve breathes in the sweet aroma of the shampoo, and under it, something familiar and soothing - something uniquely _Bucky._ His soft sigh fills the small space left between them. "It's not the end of the line, yet, jerk."

Bucky's voice, whispered into the darkness, is filled with love. "G'night, Stevie."

The nickname settles on Steve’s skin like an embrace, his chest filling with warmth and the certainty that everything is going to be okay. Somehow, they've found their way back to each other, against all odds, and no matter what lies ahead, they can face it, because they'll face it together.  
  
Steve’s eyelids flutter closed. With their bodies slotted perfectly together, and with his heart remembering the lullaby of Bucky’s peaceful, steady breaths, for the first time since the train, sleep comes easily. 


End file.
